The Glory Boys (21 page)

She looked across the room, eyes in shadow, expression hidden.

“For you, Bob.”

The driver peered past her.

“Cap’n Garrick, sir. They say it’s important.”

Kearton had been expecting it. So had she. It made it no easier.

Important
. Like that last time.

He waved to the others and turned away. She walked by his side, her hand through his arm, but hardly touching him.

He could see the two patrolmen by the hut now, and imagined what they were thinking.
Bloody officers. It’s all right for some
.

She said, “It’s not right. You’ve only just come back, and now they want you again. You’ve had no time …” She turned her head as the car started and began to manoeuvre away from a pile of debris. “If it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t have come all this way.”

They stood by the parked van, and as though it offered some illusion of privacy, he took her hands.

“If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have
wanted
to come.” The hands tensed. “Next time …” He released her. “I’d better go. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

He turned toward the car, but she said, “
Next time
, Bob Kearton, call me again. Promise
me
.” And she was suddenly pressed against him, her words muffled against his shoulder.
“So
many things I wanted to say, to explain—and now there’s no time!” She pushed some hair from her forehead with the characteristic gesture, and gazed up: he could feel her trembling. “Kiss me.”

Not her cheek: her mouth, and then she walked away, toward the house, although she turned back for a moment. She might have waved, or been touching her hair. Or her eyes. Then she was gone.

He was in the car and it was moving before he could pull himself together. The usual barriers and arguments meant nothing. He was
wrong
, no matter what excuses his mind was offering.

He said, “Sorry to keep you hanging about.”

The driver shot him a quick glance in the mirror.

“No bother, sir. I know a short cut. If it’s still there!”

Kearton looked back, but other buildings had already moved out to hide the road and the checkpoint.

Next time
. Like a hand reaching out.

He saw the glint of water, the motionless, moored ships. He could almost hear Garrick’s voice.
Important
.

He was ready.

Garrick did not look at his watch.

“You made it, then?”

By the time he had returned Kearton’s salute his mood had changed, and the famous grin was on display. “This can’t wait. Today, of all days!”

In his best uniform and apparently straight from the V.I.P reception, he was in stark contrast to the clutter of the repair yard and motionless derricks. A few workers in overalls had stopped to stare, and Garrick gave them a wave which was both casual and deliberate. There should have been a camera ready, Kearton thought.

Garrick was saying, “I’d just about had it up to the gills. All
that
guff about expense and the hard-working souls behind the scenes, for the war effort, and for
us
, for God’s sake! As if we were all sitting on our arses doing nothing!”

Kearton waited. He could smell the drink but Garrick was sober, if volatile. Sharp one minute, triumphant, even excited, the next.

“You know, some people, even senior ones, who ought to know better, have absolutely
no
idea what Special Operations can achieve. Have
already
achieved. I sometimes wonder!” He gestured toward a section of armed Royal Marines, and a rope barrier stretched across part of the yard. There was an officer in charge, a young, tough-looking lieutenant who marched toward them and saluted.

Garrick snapped, “He’s with me, damn it!” but relented immediately. “Show him your I.D., Bob. He’s only carrying out my orders.” He nodded to the lieutenant. “Well done.”

Kearton saw the smart salute. This was a restricted area; everybody knew that. So why all the extra security?

He realized that Garrick had stopped and was facing him, with his back toward one of the smaller repair basins.

He said, “For months, I’ve hoped and dreamed of something like this. I’ve had agents, good men, risking their lives to discover a flaw in the enemy’s defences.” He was standing on the very edge of the basin, like a showman. “Now, out of the blue, the
Deep Blue
, has come my reward!” He waited while Kearton stepped carefully to the edge. “Ran out of fuel, stopped and helpless, when along comes H.M. Minesweeper
Gabriel
. Now, see for yourself!”

The torpedo boat lay directly below him, held in place by wooden booms, and with mooring ropes and wires reaching out to keep her clear of the rough concrete. As if she were snared in a trap. Italian, about half the size of 992 and the other D-Boats, but with the clean, rakish lines he had never forgotten. Four torpedo tubes; usually able to carry a full cargo of
depth-charges
to fulfil her other role as an A/S vessel, and equipped with engines which could offer forty knots at the touch of a switch. He could hear them now in his mind. Like the ones they had encountered that night.

He had studied them often enough in the recognition manuals. Fast and deadly: the Italians had, after all, been the pioneers in this class. A crew of eighteen or nineteen. A command anyone would be proud of.

This one had run out of fuel. And out of luck.

“Did they put up a fight?” He could see no damage, or evidence of gunfire.

Garrick was beside him, staring down into the basin.

“
Gabriel
’s skipper fired a warning shot over them. That was enough. The Italian commander had other ideas, and tried to scuttle her.” He walked a few paces and gave his theatrical wave to one of the overalled figures who was using a flashlight over the side of a floating pontoon. The man grinned and responded with a thumbs-up.

Garrick exclaimed, “Bloody perfect!” He seemed to recall what he had been saying. “
Gabriel
’s skipper is a bit of a hard case. R.N.R., used to be a trawlerman before the war. He switched on his loud-hailer and told them the nearest land was a hundred miles away. It would be a long swim!”

“And the Italian changed his mind?”

Garrick moved away from the edge. “His crew did it for him!”

Kearton looked again at the dock. “Fuel would always be something of a risk. A range of three hundred miles, sometimes less, at twenty knots?”

Garrick nodded.

“Nothing wrong with your memory, Bob. So we’ll not take any chances. We may never get another opportunity like this. I told
Gabriel
’s skipper as much. It’s the
catch of the season
!”

He laughed abruptly at his own joke and walked back to the
edge
. “Not much time, and we can’t afford to waste it.” He was thinking aloud. “We’ll use one of your boats, to tow this one for part of the distance. Save fuel, and give us time to prepare.” He snapped his fingers. “Who d’you suggest?”

“John Stirling, in 986.” He felt numb, as if someone else was responding to Garrick’s clipped urgency. “He’s had a lot of experience in the Med.”

For a moment he thought Garrick had not heard him, or had already shifted to another tack. But he said, “The Canadians? If you say so. I’ll go along with that.”

Then he looked at his watch again. “I’ll leave you to deal with, er, Stirling. He’s on stand-by, so he
should
be on top line.” Then, very quietly, “By the way, the convoy will be arriving in the forenoon, a little later than planned. Had a spot of bother on the last leg, but nothing we can’t deal with at this end.”

Kearton said, “You’ll want the operation to begin before that, sir?”

Garrick smiled.

“I’ll have the full details sent to you immediately—or I’ll want to know the reason. No time to hang about. We can’t keep our ‘catch’ a secret for long. The prisoners, or someone spilling the beans over a few gins!” He straightened his cap. “Brice knows what to do. He’d better!”

Garrick’s new aide was hovering close by now, a wad of papers in his hand; the bomb-happy lieutenant had been replaced. Garrick had seen him, but seemed oddly unwilling to leave.

Then he said, “It’ll be your show, Bob. Another rendezvous. Not much warning—there never is. I’m depending on you. So be it!”

Kearton walked toward the barrier, and saw one of the guards waiting to pass him through.

An hour ago? Less?
Next time
… Right or wrong, she was with him now.

LIEUTENANT TOBY AINSLIE
sat in a corner of the M.T.B.’s crowded wardroom and wondered why it should feel so different. He knew all but one of the faces here, at least by sight; he had always had a good memory for those. Names were something else. Stirling, the Canadian commanding officer, had made him welcome enough, and had apologized for the lack of hospitality. Time did not allow it.

Like their own boat, this one had been built to exactly the same design, and in the same British yard, and probably launched within a few weeks of 992. All the fittings and armament matched, so there was no chance of losing your sense of direction during the night watches. So where was the difference? Ainslie could not define it, but it was here. The voices, the smells from an identical galley, a couple of framed photographs on the bulkhead, a hockey team on skates, another of a sailing cutter with an iceberg close abeam. But he was still not certain …

He could feel the vibrating murmur of generators, hear loose gear being dragged across the deck.
Making ready for sea
. He knew that was the real reason for his anxiety. Maybe if they had been ordered to sail again soon after their last grim assignment, but in their own boat, it might not have been so upsetting. He was not afraid; surely he would know that by now.

There was plenty of coffee, hot and strong. He sipped it gratefully, and saw the first lieutenant, Tom Cusack, watching him. “Too powerful, Toby?” He was smiling, but there was something else, reminiscent of the moment when the Skipper had introduced him as ‘Pilot’.

Cusack had been smiling then. “Don’t trust us, eh?”

Ainslie listened to the others. Mostyn, the other commanding officer, and his first lieutenant, who would be remaining here on stand-by. And Spiers, holding the fort and keeping an eye on the repairs. It was hard to know how he felt about being left behind.

He darted a quick glance at the other stranger in the wardroom, a Lieutenant Warren: he had not caught his first name. Kearton had met him on the upper deck. It had been quiet, unemotional, and all the more moving for that.

Kearton had gripped Warren by the shoulders and had held him without speaking. Then, “How long? For God’s sake, I thought …” He had not continued. Warren had nodded, his eyes never leaving Kearton’s.

“I thought so too, Bob. Took them six months to put me together again.”

Kearton had said to Ainslie, “Eighteen months ago, maybe more. We were based at Dover a while …” He had touched Warren’s arm again. “It was rough going, at the time.”

Warren wore a leather glove on what remained of his right hand. Ainslie had seen it when he had been unfastening a folder of charts: more like a claw than a hand, it was a miracle he could still use it. He had seen Ainslie’s expression, and made a joke of it.

“The glove makes it more presentable when I’m saluting my betters!” He had obviously made the remark often, with pain now of a different sort.

Like Kearton, he wore the ribbon of the D.S.C. on his jacket. They were perhaps the same age but Warren, not surprisingly,
looked
much older. Now he was attached to Special Operations, so he must have volunteered for this latest mission, and was in charge of the captured Italian torpedo boat.

Ainslie had seen some of the Canadian sailors watching him, surprised or pleased when he had thrown them a friendly greeting, and thought of the unknown man who had died, gripping his wrists, his eyes so desperate as he had breathed out the name.
Jethro
. Warren was different. He looked the part, whatever ‘the part’ was. So why did he and men like him continue to take such risks?

Spiers was glancing at his watch. He had been scheduled to go to a party aboard Geoff Mostyn’s boat this evening. That, too, would have to go by the board.

Lieutenant Stirling entered the wardroom, a tall, lean man whose hair seemed almost to touch the deckhead. He had a good reputation, and had already served in the Med before transferring to his own command via England. But Kearton was the S.O. of their little group, and Ainslie wondered if Stirling resented taking second place in this new operation.

He recalled the first lieutenant’s wry comment.
Don’t trust us, eh?

Kearton was here now, frowning at something Mostyn was saying to him, then leaning over to flatten a chart on the table.

Ainslie realized that Warren’s gloved fist was beside his own on the chart, and he murmured politely, “Sorry, I forgot to ask.” He saw the glove tighten, almost imperceptibly. “What’s your first name?”

The glove relaxed, and the smile became genuine.

“Another Toby, I’m afraid.”

Ainslie stared at the chart.

“I’ll call you Mark One, if that’s O.K. with you?”

“Very well, Mark Two. That’s soon settled!”

He had made a friend. And it mattered.

Kearton said abruptly, “All right, gentlemen. There’s no time
to
rest on our laurels. The convoy is due to arrive in the forenoon, and there may be air attacks.” He looked around the wardroom. “So we shall begin Operation
Retriever
at four in the morning. I don’t have to remind anyone, this is Top Secret.” He looked at Mostyn. “You’re on stand-by, Geoff,” and smiled. “And it means just that. So be ready.”

Ainslie watched him with something like admiration. On the bridge and all hell breaking loose, caring about his crew, and even the man who had died after the explosion … then getting them all back to base, only to be ordered to some damned meeting. And now this …

The others were standing around the table. They had their written orders, not that those would tell or prepare them for much.